


And What Happened After

by emungere



Series: There and Back [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-03
Updated: 2012-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-28 19:27:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/311387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emungere/pseuds/emungere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Much thanks to justblue0162 and louiselux for betaing!</p><p>I think I didn't say in the last one, but the titles are stolen from Lord of the Rings, Bilbo's potential memoir titles.</p><p>Pandarus has kindly made a <a href="http://audiofic.jinjurly.com/there-and-back-againand-what-happened-after-audiobook">podfic</a> of this!</p>
    </blockquote>





	And What Happened After

**Author's Note:**

> Much thanks to justblue0162 and louiselux for betaing!
> 
> I think I didn't say in the last one, but the titles are stolen from Lord of the Rings, Bilbo's potential memoir titles.
> 
> Pandarus has kindly made a [podfic](http://audiofic.jinjurly.com/there-and-back-againand-what-happened-after-audiobook) of this!

Sherlock paused in his playing as he heard the front door open, but it was only John. He resumed, the fugue from Bach’s Sonata No. 3 in in C major.

John stomped and muttered his way up the stairs. He stopped at the top, breathing harder than the climb could account for. He had the shopping in one hand, and a bag of ice wrapped around the other, not quite covering the flushed red beginning of a bruise across the first three knuckles of his right hand. He stood still until Sherlock finished.

“What was that?” John said. “Sounds like London Bridge is Falling Down.”

“Was it Anderson?”

“What?”

“Whom you hit,” Sherlock said patiently. “Was it Anderson?”

John looked at him steadily for a few seconds. “Come and help me put away the shopping,” he said.

He did. John had bought a mini-fridge that sat in the corner of the kitchen and contained their milk, mustard, and a few disintegrating vegetables. John had put a sign on the door that said: FOOD ONLY and then added another underneath that said: by which I mean only things you personally intend to eat or reasonably believe I might want to eat. The final sign simply read: NO HUMAN BODY PARTS, EVER.

John leaned against the counter. Sherlock put away the lettuce, a jar of horseradish, some pickled eggs, and a large block of cheddar cheese.

“How did you know?” John said.

“You are a remarkably patient man, John. Even with me.”

“And Anderson would try the patience of Mother Theresa, I’m not arguing that. But I wasn’t planning to see him today. I didn’t go anywhere near a crime scene or Lestrade’s office or even the hospital.”

“It wasn’t a random attack or attempted mugging. You were irritated, not concerned. If there’d been any mystery, you would’ve suspected Moriarty’s involvement, at least a bit. You knew the person you hit. So I ask myself, whom would John Watson punch? Further, whom would he punch who wouldn’t even get in one hit in return? It’s quite a short list. Of course, it was remotely possible you’d met an old acquaintance or arch-enemy--” He paused. John smiled and looked down and shook his head. “But unlikely. Add to that the Real Madrid football match this evening, the fact that Anderson’s a rabid fan, his cable is out, and the nearest pub to him is the one you pass on the way home from Tesco’s...” He shrugged. “Simple. Also you now smell of his appalling cologne.”

It must’ve taken a lot of contact to pass on that smell. Sherlock pictured it: John shoving Anderson up against the wall, holding him there with the weight of his body. Anderson was probably drunk or he would’ve had the sense to shut up at that point. Evidently, he hadn’t.

John was smiling still, irritation apparently forgotten. “Amazing,” he said.

“What did he say?”

“Doesn’t matter.” John dumped the mostly melted ice from his bag in the sink and went to the freezer to refill it. His face was unreadable, at least to Sherlock. Sherlock could admit, privately, that he had a bit of work to do in that area.

“It was something about me,” he said.

“What makes you say that?”

“Because you get on with everyone. And you wouldn’t hit someone for insulting _you_. So it was me. Who else-- Oh. Or Sarah?”

“Sarah can take care of herself,” John said, and he stopped, bag half sealed, staring at the wall. His back was to Sherlock.

They both thought that statement through.

Sherlock got almost nowhere with it. It was too vague, and John too self-contained. It might mean he wasn’t seeing her anymore. It might mean he didn’t think she needed his help. That would imply he thought Sherlock _did_.

“He didn’t-- I’m sure he wouldn’t say anything about her in any case,” John said. He finished sealing the bag and pressed it against his knuckles. He didn’t turn around.

Sherlock _itched_. It was the same unidentifiable feeling that had made him kiss John so clumsily, that had made it a relief to sleep in John’s bed, on the outside, between John and the rest of the world. He didn’t know what it meant, and he didn’t know what to do with it.

“I got Goldeneye,” he said. “Do you want to watch? We could get Thai. Mr. Sriroj owes me. Unless you really wanted a horseradish and mustard salad for dinner.”

John turned and gave him a relieved grin. “Yeah, sounds good. Spring rolls. Something deep fried.”

“I’ll go. I know what you like. Shower or something. You really do smell terrible.”

“Thanks so much.”

“You’re welcome.” Sherlock started for the door and stopped. “Oh. Do you have cash?”

John threw him his wallet. Sherlock caught it, threw on his coat, and left.

It was raining, but not hard. Just enough to make soft halos around the streetlights and catch in people’s hair as they hurried home. Even those carrying umbrellas hadn’t put them up. Sherlock stuck his hand in his pocket and closed faintly damp fingers around John’s wallet. He waited until Mr. Sriroj had taken his order to go through it.

John had a bank card, a credit card, a library card. He had a photo of his sister and another woman, presumably her ex. He had forty pounds in cash and assorted change. He had a number of neatly folded receipts, a slip of paper with Sarah’s home number on it, and another piece of paper, much larger, folded into a small chunky square.

His phone buzzed. It was a text from John, who had apparently worked out that if Mr. Sriroj owed him, Sherlock didn’t need cash.

J: stop going through my wallet

S: you don’t even like your sister

J: she’s my sister. you’ve got a photo of mycroft

S: that’s in case he disappears and i need to make HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN posters

J: ha ha bloody ha. put everything back where you found it and just stop

That was John. So doggedly normal in some respects. Sherlock unfolded the piece of paper and looked it over.

And not at all in others.

It was a pencil sketch, heavily edited, eraser marks and lines drawn over lines, correcting shape and dimension. Worked on often, Sherlock judged by the creasing of the paper, for at least two weeks. It was Moriarty’s face, spot-on perfect.

Of course they’d both given the police sketch artists a description, and the likeness thereby produced was quite good. This was better. This might be said to hold in it something of Moriarty’s black soul, if Sherlock were inclined to say such things.

S: were you planning to show lestrade

J: it’s not done

S: looks done

J: fuck off

Mr. Sriroj came out with their food and effusive thanks, and Sherlock started back to the flat without answering the text.

John was waiting for him at the top of the stairs. His hair was damp, and he smelled of Sherlock’s shampoo instead of Anderson’s cologne, which was a remarkable improvement.

“Sorry,” John said.

“What?”

“For telling you to-- I’ll get forks.”

He did. They ate out of the containers and watched things explode on television.

“It’s good,” Sherlock said, when John had finished all the spring rolls.

“It’s not right.”

“It is. It’s perfect, actually. I’m impressed by your memory, especially given the circumstances.”

“No, there’s something--”

“He’s not smiling. In the drawing. He was smiling almost the whole time. That’s what’s bothering you.”

John was quiet a long time. “Yes, that’s it,” he said, finally. His voice was tight. He was looking at the television, but Sherlock didn’t think he was seeing it.

Sherlock edged closer across the sofa cushions, pushed by the itch under his skin and the difficult knowledge that John’s discomfort was...unpleasant. That it mattered to him. It made him want to do something to correct it.

He pressed up against John’s side. John gave him a startled look.

“You said I could,” Sherlock reminded him. He remembered every second of that night with a clarity of detail unusual even for him, and he definitely remembered John saying it was okay to touch.

“Yes, of course,” John said, and his body relaxed in a way that was definitely forced. It left behind pockets of tension around his eyes and in his hands, but he put his arm around Sherlock and looked back at the screen.

Sherlock sat very still and catalogued new data. The weight of John’s arm around him, his body’s own immediate response: relaxation, a certain sinking into the touch. He tucked his legs up beside him on the sofa and put his head on John’s shoulder.

John went tense and still again for a split second, but Sherlock decided he would much rather have John uncomfortable with his own freakish behavior than with worry over Moriarty and an unpredictable future.

“Your jumper smells of old chip fat,” he said, nose pressed into it. “When’s the last time you washed it?”

“It’s dry clean only.” He let out a soft breath that stirred Sherlock’s hair. His hand curled around Sherlock’s shoulder. “I’ll do that in the immense amount of free time you leave me, shall I?”

“Just give me your things. I’ll take them out with mine. There’s a cleaner round the corner who--”

“Owes you a favor?” There was a smile in John’s voice. “Do you actually go looking for these people? Is this your grand plan so you’ll never have to pay for anything but clothes and nicotine patches ever again?”

“Actually, there’s this tailor--”

John laughed and pressed his cheek briefly to the top of Sherlock’s head. “Shut up,” he said. “Shut up and watch the film.”

Mission accomplished, Sherlock did just that. John really was rather comfortable. The warmth of him, the flicker of the movie and its completely unlikely plot, the unaccustomed feeling of a full stomach all combined to make Sherlock feel almost sleepy. Compared to the utter exhaustion that usually forced him to spend a few hours in his bed, it was surprisingly pleasant. He pushed closer, felt John pat his shoulder absently in response, and closed his eyes.


End file.
